


All in the Name of Science by Leviathan

by Leviathan0999



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-25
Updated: 2009-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviathan0999/pseuds/Leviathan0999
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It should have been all about the danger, but all she could think about was her cock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All in the Name of Science by Leviathan

            It should have been all about the danger.

            Death Eaters and You-Know-Who himself were out there, and they had no higher goal than killing Harry Potter. The order members crowded with her into the gleaming kitchen at Number 4, Privet Drive, were all grim and serious, quaffing their potions to become carbon-copies, clones, of the Boy-Who-Lived, so he could continue to do so through the summer.

            It should have been all about the danger... but as she shrugged off her dress and brassiere, all she could think about was her simple, white, cotton knickers, and what now bulged within them, filling them in ways they were never meant to be filled. The sensation had been so _strange!_ What had once been tucked safely up within her body inverting itself and now hanging out. She had a _penis!_  She had _testicles!_ How thoroughly bizarre, how fascinating!

            She felt her hand reaching over in the crowded room to touch it, and withdrew quickly, busied herself getting clothing from the rucksack, and joking, as she took a pair of glasses, about Harry's awful vision.

            It should have been all about the danger, but all she could think about was her cock.

* * *

            Combat, she had read, was hour after hour of unremitting, corrosive boredom, interspersed with seconds of sheer, stark terror. Hiding out in Grimmauld Place was not dissimilar. The short excursions and heart-pounding terror were the same. All that was multiplied was the amount of boredom.

            Days had become weeks, weeks, months, and they had learned much, and were formulating a plan – might soon recover the locket – but mostly, they kept themselves occupied in the great, creaking old mansion.

            The boys played wizard's chess and exploding snap. She retreated into the Blacks' library and read. But she kept thinking, kept remembering. The feeling of it, curled in her knickers. Kingsley Shacklebolt's strong, manly body in her arms, his slightly exotic scent wafting back at her as their Thestral flew them through terrifying combat, and out of it, abandoned quickly by Death Eaters she had not long fooled. The strong male body, the exhilaration after the fear.... Her cock, starting to uncurl, to straighten, stiffen, bound and uncomfortably constrained by the knickers.

            It had felt so_ different!_ She was no stranger to arousal, not after six years with Ron by her side!  Harry, too, she'd be a fool to deny it, he was handsome and lovely, and it wasn't like he was her brother or anything. But, Ron, Ron was everything. She knew that, now, supposed she had for years. And she remembered the wedding, remembered dancing with him, Ron holding her close, at first to show Viktor how things stood, and then for the pleasure of holding her close, and she'd felt his arousal, pressing against her, and remembered her penis, her erection –_ her cock! -- _and she thought about what it must be like... She put a hand to her mouth, stifling a small moan, and stood up, leaving the book _– Stunning and Killing with Legal Household Plants _by Guntram Shatterhand – open on the library table, to stalk down the hallway.

            _Really,_ she thought, as she marched, almost double-time, through the halls of the Black's family manse, _it **is** an entirely fascinating thing. Male and female anatomies are so different! The clitoris has **twice** as many nerve endings as the glans of a penis! It must feel very different._ She strode around a corner, and started up the back stairs, sucking her lip between her teeth as she considered.

            Knowledge was important. Knowledge was power. There was nothing wrong expanding one's knowledge. She was on this mission, fighting in this war, with two young men, hormonal teenagers, randy boys -- of course they were, _It's axiomatic_, her mother might have said – surely it was only responsible to better understand what they felt, what drove them.

            A small, mutinous voice in her head yammered against this conscious onslaught, trying to tell her that the two boys weren't the only randy teenagers in the house, but she quashed it mercilessly, stepping into the second-floor hallway, and into the room she'd adopted as her own.

            She hadn't really realised where she was going until she was holding the flask of golden liquid in her hand. _Ooh, you look much tastier than Crabbe and Goyle, Harry._ She felt her heart pounding in her breast as she looked at the thick fluid, golden and quite beautiful. _Go on,_ urged the small, mutinous voice of her arousal, sending her memories again of the feeling of a cock curled in her knickers, the feeling of it starting to harden as she held Shacklebolt, and, as always happened when her thoughts or feelings turned to arousal, Ron's ginger hair and cobalt-blue eyes, his lopsided smile and ready wit, floated into her mind. _You know you want to..._

_            Honestly!_ The other voice was sharper, firmer, huffing impatiently. _It's all in the name of science! It's for **everyone**'s benefit!_

            She sat down on the bed, looking at the flask, the golden essence of Harry inside it, for several long moments. Then she was digging in her bag, finding the jeans and T-shirt she'd worn that terrifying day, and started unbuttoning her blouse. _If I'm going to do this as a boy, I should do it as a boy!_

* * *

            Ten minutes later, her small, slender fingers curled in the waistband of jeans that were far too large, she was – there was, she admitted, no other word for it – skulking down the second-floor hallway, pausing at door after door until she found a guest room that had a male-oriented décor and an intact bed, and she slipped inside, pulling the door quietly shut.

            She fished in her pocket, and brought up the flask, regarding the golden liquid in it again. It shone in the afternoon light through the windows, shone in the palm of her hand through the glass flask, and she regarded it for a long, long moment before uncapping it, and slugging back the flask's contents.

            As soon as she had swallowed it, the sensation hit, not pain, exactly, but in _strain_, like doing heave exercises, as her body re-shaped itself, growing taller, limbs thickening, muscles expanding, bones re-shaping themselves. Her vision swam with red light, as if she'd just taken a strong punch, and when it returned, it was blurry, and she dug in her pocket again, and pulled out the glasses she'd worn before, and, as her body settled into its new shape, she slid them on, and glanced over at the full-length mirror.

            Harry stared back at her, gasping and shaking, and she actually started at the sight, thinking for a fraction of a second that he had caught her, before she saw the Harry in the mirror start identically, and knew that he was her.

            She stepped over to the mirror, reached a hand out – Harry's hand, as recognizable to her at the end of her (Harry's) arm as her own – and touched the mirror, watching the reflected hand doing the same. Then she grabbed the hem of the old, worn T-shirt, and whisked it off over her head, to throw it onto a bed-post, where it hung, the logo on the front –_ Frankie say: RELAX!_ \-- mocking her as it hung there.

            Harry's chest and torso were surprisingly well muscled. She supposed years of bullies, Quidditch and a Dark Lord would do that for a fellow. She was surprisingly hirsute, coarse dark hair on her chest and abdomen, a thick, visible trail disappearing down into her jeans. Inside them, she was already painfully away of her cock inside a “borrowed” pair of Harry's Y-fronts.

            She ran her hands over her chest, her belly, feeling the coarse hair under her fingers, feeling the strong, broom-callused fingers against her skin. Ron had a smattering of downy-looking red hair on his chest, sort of diamond-shaped, over his breastbone. It was probably much softer than this. The fingers sliding down her belly met the waistband of the jeans, and she stopped, her heart – Harry's heart – pounding in her breast. She'd carefully _not_ looked, back at Privet Drive. But looking, learning, feeling.... Well, that was the whole point, this time, wasn't it?

            She felt her cock stirring, and was suddenly scrabbling at the button and zip fastener of her jeans. She wanted _to _see it happen, wanted to _see_ the cock harden and she ripped the jeans and Y-fronts down and stood quickly, looking into the mirror at the nest of coarse, dark curls, at the penis that hung amongst them. It was amazing. She'd seen drawing, even photographs, but seeing that cock, rising slowly, as she stared at it, her heart banging away inside her chest, even as she felt it, felt it becoming hard, sensitive..._hungry. _Below it was a sac, fleshy, wrinkled, and she could feel it, feel the balls inside it, hanging against her strong, manly thighs.

            She took a deep breath, and slid her hand down into the nest of coarse dark curls, and even as she did, she saw her cock twitch in anticipation, and she gasped in wonder, and her fingers were stroking its length, and the skin of her cock felt so soft under her fingers, the cock itself so hard, and her fingers felt so _good_ against it, so good, and her cock was hungry for more of that touch, but she slid her hand down first, to feel her sac, her balls – her _bollocks_, Ron or Harry would say – and that was amazing, it felt so good, so very good, and she moaned slightly at her own touch.

            _No_. She sucked her lip into her mouth. _That was a **girlish** moan. Harry and Ron won't moan like that. They'll be rougher, harder. They'll talk dirty._

            She brought her hand back up to wrap it again around her hungry, needy, demanding cock, and instead of moaning, gasped, “_Oh, fuck!_”

            A charge of excitement ran through her, and she felt her cock twitch in her hand.

            She stroked her hand along her cock, feeling how much more sensitive it was at the head, and the soft skin just behind it. _How odd that Harry's circumcised! Wizards almost never do that!_ She guessed it was the Dursleys' doing, somehow. The thought of Harry's horrible relatives sent a wave of anger and revulsion through her and her cock felt less hungry, less needy, and she brought her attention back to the task in hand, so to speak, and determined to think of something sexy, something that would turn her on. Ron.

            Her cock twitched again in her hand, and she moaned his name: “Roooonnnnnn....”

            _No. Like a boy would. Like a man would._

            “Ron!” she said again, hoarsely. Her hand moved over her cock now. She seemed to know instinctively how to hold it how tight, how to stroke it. Every now and again she'd brush her thumb over the glans, and _Oh, God!_ That felt very, very good!

            Perhaps the third time she did that with her thumb, she felt wetness, and she looked down and saw that another pearlescent drop had formed at the tip already.

            She stared down at that drop of moisture as she moved her hand over her cock, wondering how it would taste. She had read about oral sex – _Blow-job, knob-job, giving head!_ Her cock pulsed again at the thoughts, the words – and thought that it was something she might do for Ron. So she reached with her left hand and gathered that drop on her fingertip, and brought it up to her mouth as she pumped at her cock with her right.

            Well, it wasn't a dessert topping, that was for sure. It was salty and bitter with an oddly tangy undertone that intrigued her... But she found that she liked it, and that the taste excited her, and she remembered to gasp like a man, gasped, “_Fuck!_”

            Her hand moved faster on her cock, seemingly of its own accord, and she thought about Ron, about oral sex – about _blow jobs!_ – and she found herself imagining him kneeling in front of her as she held her cock, his mouth open to accept it. She was aware that many women had fantasies of seeing two men together, engaged in homoerotic behaviour. She hadn't really known, until that moment, that she was one of them, and she cried out, hoarsely, “_Ron!_”

* * *

            Ron froze where he was, hearing Harry's voice cry out his name. He'd thought Harry had been heading for the kitchen! It was definitely his voice, though, calling him from one of the unused bedrooms, and Ron padded quickly down the hall in his stocking feet to the door.

            “_Fuck, Ron!_” cried Harry's voice, and he pushed the door open. It was one of the bedrooms, a guest room. The bed was mostly intact, and Ron saw one of Harry's T-shirts – _Frankie say: RELAX!_ What the hell was that supposed to mean, anyway? The sentence was even constructed wrong! -- hanging from a bedpost.

            He pushed the door open further, and there was Harry.

            Ron's eyes widened, and his mouth fell open in a wordless, soundless gasp.

            Harry was standing, leaning on his left hand on the wall-mounted full-length mirror. His jeans and pants were down around his knees, and he was wanking. His back was well-muscled, and his arse surprisingly rounded, and his right hand was wrapped around his cock, pumping away at it, his hips thrusting into his fist, fucking it, as he gasped Ron's name.

            “_Suck it, Ron!_” Harry rasped. “_Suck it in! Suck my cock, Ron, take it all!_”

            At this last, Harry stiffened, and as Ron watched, a jet of sticky, white jizz spurted from his cock, splashed onto the mirror, dribbled down into his jeans and Y-Fronts, and Ron backed quickly from the room, pulling the door closed in front of him, his head full of the roaring in his ears.

            _Merlin's balls!_ Ron turn and almost trotted back down the hall to the room he shared with-- _the room he shared with Harry!_ He gulped, his heart pounding, and stopped, leaning back against the wall of the hallway. _Calm down, calm down. You've roomed with Harry for years, and he's never said or done anything, never given you the least idea he felt this way. He's not going to molest you. He's your mate!_

            He drew in a long breath through his nose, willing himself to calm down. _This is Harry. This is Harry._ The image flashed in his head again: the smooth muscles of back and thigh and arse thrusting, quivering, the jet of semen splashing onto the mirror. _Suck my cock, Ron, take it all!_

            Ron shook his head. _Merlin!_

* * *

            “Ron, are you all right?” Harry asked, looking over his bowl of stew at him.

            Ron's fork landed on the table with a clatter before falling to the floor.

            “Y-- yeah! Fine, fine! Really.” He started to lean down to retrieve the utensil, and then his eyes widened, and he sat up straight. “Why?”

            Harry frowned at him. “You're acting very weird.”

            “No I'm not!” Ron cried.

            Harry looked blankly at him.

            Ron stared into his eyes. Green eyes. Very green. Really, a very pretty green, when you-- He spun away, swallowing with a dry click. “'M _not!_”

            “Ron...” Harry waited.

            After almost a minute, Ron turned back to face him.

            “Spit it out, Ron. What's going on?”

            “Look, Harry, you're my mate, okay? An' I-- Okay, I reckon I love you. I do, all right? You know I do. Only... Only, not like... You know.”

            Harry's eyes narrowed and brows rose. He moved his chair a little away from Ron's “Ooooookay....”

            “I mean, it's not that it's not, you know, sort of flattering. I just... I don't... Not that there's anything _wrong_ with that! No matter _what_ mum says! But, I... I... I'm sorry, Harry. I just--”

            “Ron!” Harry was looking distinctly alarmed now. “What the _hell_ are you talking about?”

            “I saw you this afternoon!” cried Ron, and then buried his face in his hands.

            “I saw you, too.” said Harry, seeming confused.

            Ron's head snapped upright. “You _did!?!?_”

            Harry blinked owlishly at him. “Hard not to, Ron. We were playing chess at the time. I was sitting right--”

            “Not _then!_” Ron sounded exasperated. “Oh, Merlin, Harry, what do you _think_ I'm talking about?”

            “Honestly, I was hoping you'd know that, because I'm bloody well stumped!”

            “Harry, I--”

            “Hey,” said a voice from the door. Hermione was there, bright-eyed, red-faced, her legs emerging from under a large, baggy T-Shirt emblazoned with large block letters reading _Frankie say: RELAX!_. “What's for supper?”

            “Stew,” said Harry, with a smile. “And a crazed Weasley for entertainment.” He went to the stove to ladle her out a bowl. “Ron here's finally gone round the bend.”

            Ron was staring at Hermione, wide-eyed.

            “Nice shirt,” chuckled Harry, as he set the bowl before an empty chair.

            Hermione and Ron were staring, wide-eyed at one another, both of their faces colouring a deep scarlet.

            “Er...” said Harry, looking back and forth between them. “All right, is there something going on?”


End file.
